


Tranquil

by Markovia



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Churches, Contemplation, Divinity, Heaven, Hell, Mentions of Stabbing, Peace, Plotting, Russia, Snow, Trip - Freeform, Violence, contemplating death, ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 17:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13815927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markovia/pseuds/Markovia
Summary: Izaya visits a church in Russia and contemplates the future.





	Tranquil

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know what this story is. It started out as part of a chapter for another story but it didn't fit so I decided to make it a standalone thing. It's not really got much point other than exploring Izaya a bit - I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Apologies if I got any of the terms wrong - I've done a little reading on Eastern Orthodox in the past but am always looking to be corrected and learn more! :)

Bogolyubovo looks beautiful in the Winter. The crisp, snow-covered ground and chilling air is a refreshing change from the humid smog of Tokyo. Izaya still prefers the city, there are far more humans to observe there, but once every now and then it’s pleasant to get away from the crowds. The Russian settlement has a population of around four thousand but the bleak, biting cold means that the streets are empty. The landscape is quiet, the only thing he can hear is the gentle gurgle of the half-frozen River Nerl and the soft swaying of the trees in the wind. He’s been in the nearby city of Vladimir for the last week, conversing with a few of the Awakusu-kai’s contacts with regards to a shipment of goods that is being sent to Japan. The meetings had been successful and efficient which meant he had five free days to spend in Russia before his flight home. He could have easily booked another but the last few months have been exceptionally busy and frankly, he needs a bit of a break. The last time he took time off was when he was stabbed and even then he was always scouring online chatrooms and forums for information that he could use when he could leave his bed. 

 

The manager of the hotel recommended that he visit Bogolyubovo.  _ ‘A quaint little place. Very quiet, you might like it after spending time around all this concrete. There are some beautiful churches out there too’.  _ Izaya had very little else to do so he asked for directions and the name of a place to stay was soon on his way. It was a good recommendation, he’ll make note to thank the manager when he returns to Vladimir tomorrow. He drops his belongings in a small but tidy room in a bed and breakfast in the centre of the village and soon heads out into the marketplace to see if he can find something to do. There are a couple of stalls still open, a few eateries and bars which he passes, waving cheerily at the patrons sat outside. Finally he stops outside of a hardware store and smiles as he approaches a man stood outside. He’s a tall, muscular creature, with so much facial hair that Izaya can barely see the features of his face. A large iron wood-burner is at his feet, not yet lit. The man halts lighting the stack of kindling in the burner as the informant grows closer, gazing at him suspiciously through beady eyes. 

 

“Good afternoon,” Izaya greets, well-practiced Russian rolling easily off his tongue. The man nods and goes back to striking matches. Eventually one catches successfully against the kindling and the logs in the grate start to smoke. Izaya gives him a friendly smile and gestures around the village. “I am not familiar with this place. Do you have any advice on what to do here?” 

 

There’s a moment of silence as the man looks him up and down, then he takes a cigarette from his top pocket and holds it over the flames to light it. “There’s the church on the river. But it’s hard to get to this time of the year.”

 

“How difficult?” 

 

“It is about a kilometre away from the village,” the man says, jerking his thumb in the direction of a street to their right. “Over a bridge, then a walk across the meadow. The snow is thick, so the walk is hard. There are also patches of the river which are frozen and covered in snow so there is a chance of falling through.”

 

Izaya nods and looks in the direction the man is pointing. “Is there another way?” 

 

The man grunts and takes a drag of his cigarette. He breathes out after a couple of seconds and the smoke melds with the harsher black fumes coming from the woodburner. “I can take you. I have dogs.”

 

“If that’s possible then that would be marvelous. I am happy to pay for the service,” Izaya replies. 

 

“That is not necessary,” he answers, with a wave of his hand. “Donate to the church, preferable.”

 

The information broker smiles until the man turns away, then he wrinkles his nose as he notices the dogs sitting in the alley alongside the hardware store. He’s never liked dogs but he’ll bear with it for the sake of easier travel. 

 

 

 

-0- 

 

 

The Church of the Intercession is far more beautiful than he imagined. As the sleigh moves across the meadow it comes into view, a long pillar of white stone that appears to be rising out of the river itself. The building is narrow and elongated, as if it’s been stretched up toward the heavens to bring the dome closer to the divine. As they grow closer Izaya can see that it is situated on a tiny slither a land that is resting a few inches above the frozen water. The man - who has revealed his name to be Alexei - halts the drawn sled with a strong tug of the reins and stares absently at the church on the water.

 

“This is far as I can go,” he says, nodding toward the frozen distance between the building and the sleigh. “It will be dark in a few hours. I will come back to pick you up before then.”

 

Izaya thanks him and carefully moves out of the sled, testing the ground before putting all of his weight down. It seems solid enough but he knows better than to be careless. Alexei notices his hesitation and reaches down into the sleigh to retrieve a long metal crowbar. Izaya raises a brow but instead of doing anything nefarious the Russian throws it toward him. He catches it deftly and holds it in front of him, confused. 

 

“Prod the ground before walking on. Not too hard. Will show you where is weaker,” Alexei explains, gathering the reins back into his hands. “I will return before dusk. If there is complication remain in the church and I will be here tomorrow morning.”

 

“Thank you Alexei,” Izaya says, inclining his head in thanks. “Have a pleasant evening.”

 

The Russian nods and draws the slackened reins taut against his broad thighs. “Do not forget to put money into church donation box.”

 

“No problem!” Izaya watches as the sled veers round and disappears into the distance. A sour look passes over his face as he turns to face the church on the water. As he starts to make his way across the frozen ground, tapping the snow gently with the crowbar, he sarcastically mumbles under his breath, “Oops, I forgot my wallet.”

 

The journey takes longer than expected due to the density of the snow and the need to feel for weaker areas along the way. The view surrounding him is spectacular but the cold starts to sink in quickly and soon drives Izaya’s to pick up the pace. By the time he arrives at the salt-scattered path to the church door, his teeth are chattering loudly in his head and he’s starting to feel a chill in his chest despite the thick ski-jacket and layers of thermals he’s wearing. With a relieved sigh he pushes open the door and hurries inside, closing it firmly behind him. The antechamber is comfortably warm, so he pushes his fur-lined hood back and shakes the snow from his boots before turning slowly toward the smaller wooden door a few feet away. All the coat pegs are empty and the hall is quiet - he can’t sense the presence of anyone else. He rests the crowbar against a bench near the exit then heads through the door into the nave of the church. 

 

The main body of the church is well-decorated, though far from the magnificent detail of the cathedrals he visited in Moscow and Vladimir. Despite this the coloured paintings, gold leaf-plastered capitals and polished wooden furniture give the place an imposing atmosphere. Izaya shuts the door to the narthex and ruffles a hand through his damp hair before heading further into the main chamber, marvelling at the lofty cupola that curves above him. It’s painted in a delicate blue somewhat reminiscent of the sky, spattered with portions of gold and depictions of figures from the Orthodox religion. The elongated proportions he noticed from the meadow mean that the angles of the roof slope together narrowly, meaning that the light in the interior is rather dim. To make up for this there are rows of candles along the walls which cast a flickering shadows across the stone walls. Izaya raises a brow and wonders who could have lit them as he moves toward the right hand pew nearest the altar. 

 

With a contented sigh he takes a seat and fumbles for the zip of his ski jacket. It’s uncomfortable to sit in due to its rigidness so he loosens the velcro straps and stows his gloves into the inner pocket. His fingers brush the cold metal of the switchblade sitting there and the sensation makes him grin wickedly. Bringing a weapon into a place like this, Izaya thinks, what an awful sinner he must be. He spreads his arms out across the back of the pew and rolls his head back onto the brushed wood so that he can look up into the imitation sky. 

 

The silence and the warmth soon affect him and his muscles relax against the hard seat. It’s so rare that he has moments of such peace. Of course, this is the life he has chosen and he adores it ninety percent of the time but down-time is appreciated every now and then. No information to search for and catalogue, no plans to make, no mobsters hunting him, no  _ monsters  _ hunting him, no severed heads or Tsukumoya or Namie’s sour face or Shiki or- 

 

“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he breathes, happily. An amused grin slides across his face. For someone so staunchly atheist, this is not the first time that he has found peace within the walls of a religious centre. Perhaps it is the stillness or perhaps it is the irony of it, he can’t say for sure. But he can’t deny the sense of clarity and calm that sitting in silence in a place like this brings. 

 

Izaya could care less for gods and monsters, humans have always been things far more worthy of worship. He thinks on Shizuo and Saika and Celty, creatures that are of interest but no further than as pawns to advance his plans. He thinks of the Dollars and the Colour Gangs, of Shinra, of Namie, and lets out a satisfied hum. There is so much more he can do with game pieces such as these. Finally he thinks on his own position on the board and comes up short. There is no piece suitable for him to undertake the role of, he’s removed from the game. Yet he wouldn’t consider himself simply an observer, not when he has so many strings wrapped around his fingers ready to pull certain pieces into place. 

 

The informant opens his eyes and tips his head forward until he’s staring directly at the altar beneath the eaves of the sanctuary. Would it be presumptuous to consider himself a god? Perhaps presently, but who knows how the next year will pass? If his plan to reunite the Dullahan with her head goes correctly, if his theories are accurate, then- Izaya lets out a soft laugh and shakes his head, amused by his own ramblings. 

 

It is too soon to think on such things, there are still far too many pieces to move into place. A few need flicking from the board - Yodogiri, Saika,  _ Shizu-chan.  _ A couple to push forward - Mikado, Masaomi. Then there’s those he simply needs to keep an eye on to make sure they make no unseen moves - Namie, Shiki, his sisters. He wouldn’t put it past Dotachin to become more of a bishop than a pawn. Izaya sighs and stuffs his hands into his pockets, sliding down in the pew until his shoulders are flat against the wood and his legs are splayed in front of him. Perhaps peace really is impossible for someone like him. Even in this isolated, beautiful place all he can think about is Ikebukuro and the delights of the story he has woven for it. 

 

Izaya stares at the colourful paintings above the altar, then the stained-glass window a few feet above. He recognises the majority of the icons detailed there but there are a few that remain a mystery, though he assumes they are associated with local interests. There are a few prayer cushions at the feet of the altar, well-worn by the threadbare look of them. Izaya sits up a little straighter and laces his hands together in his lap. He’s not too proud a man to admit that he has prayed before. It may have just been the once but it was so out of character for him that he remembers it quite vividly. 

 

The phone call, the surprise, the unbearable pain in his chest. Then crashing to his knees, scrabbling for his phone with blood-slick fingers and collapsing onto the cold pavement as he felt warmth draining from beneath his skin. It was then, just before he blacked out, that he felt terror for the first time in his life. The idea of passing, of losing his grip on the human world and entering into some foreign, unknown darkness was utterly petrifying so Izaya closed his eyes and begged. Begged to God, Zeus, Satan, Allah, any damn deities he could think of at the time, he begged that he wouldn’t die. He promised them the world, he promised that if he continued living he would believe, he’d be a  _ good person.  _ When he woke up in hospital he decided that the moment of weakness was probably due to blood loss and he might need a  _ little  _ more proof to start believing. 

 

It’s probably a good thing that he doesn’t have any faith, after all there are many misdeeds that he could be held accountable for. Izaya smirks and imagines St Peter looking through his book at the pearly gates, face aghast due to the things he’s reading. His sins are only going to get worse in the coming year. If things work out, he’s going to have committed his first murder. The information broker doesn’t count all those suicides as his fault, after all he didn’t _ technically _ push those girls off that building. He didn’t need to, all he needed to do was talk to them. No, his first and most likely last murder will be his greatest achievement - he’s finally going to kill Shizu-chan. All those years of dancing around one another, all those years of taunts and threats thrown carelessly in the streets - it must end or they will never be free of the seemingly endless battle. Izaya doesn’t consider himself the sort of man who needs to stoop to the level of killing his enemies but this seems to be the only option. Shizuo is a monster, an animal who isn’t capable of being rationalised with. Thus Izaya, who has been the only one to land blows on him and escape without a scratch, must be the one shoot him down like a raging bear. He’s still thinking on the method but the thespian in him would like it to include fire - he’ll send Shizuo down in flames then meet him in Hell at a later date. A manic grin spreads across his face and he starts giggling at his own joke. What a farce.

 

A loud holler comes from outside. Izaya looks up at the window and notices that the light is fading quickly - it must be Alexei. That was fast, he thinks, looking at his watch. His eyebrows raise in surprise - he’s been sat here for two hours, time seems to have passed quickly. With a sigh, he stands and zips up his jacket. Gloves in hand, he walks down the narrow path between the two columns of pews and stands at the door. He turns back with his hand against the flat of the wood, giving the place on last look over before departing. It’s unlikely that he’ll be here again, so it is worth committing to memory. Out of the corner of his eye he notices that one of the candles near the door has snuffed out and is now emitting a thin pillar of smoke. The smell reminds him of Ikebukuro, of Shizuo. After a moment of consideration and a pang of homesickness, he decides that it would be best to cut this tourist break short. He’ll book a flight from his phone and head back to Vladimir in the morning, hopefully he can fly back in the evening. Peace is overrated, he wants to be back in the buzzing mess of the city. He wants to get back to arranging his pieces, pulling strings and setting the board on fire. It’s what he lives for and, most likely, it is what he will die for. 

 

Before Izaya leaves, he fishes a stolen Zippo from his jacket pocket and re-lights the extinguished candle. He pushes open the door and turns back to wink at the empty space as if some deity is watching him. 

 

“Call that my donation!” he comments, cheerily. 

 

The door swings shut behind him and the gust of wind that follows snuffs out the entire row of flames. 


End file.
